


lay it bare

by MadameRed



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Asexual Character, F/M, ace!fenris, headcanon involving isabela's lips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameRed/pseuds/MadameRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabela let them think that it was all sexual. She’d never put much stock into the opinions people had of her if they didn’t mesh with what she knew of herself. She knew that there were people in her life who knew her enough to know that the attractive siren was hardly skin deep.</p><p>Like Fenris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lay it bare

**Author's Note:**

> Hold her eyes  
> Share the same air  
> Oh lay it down  
> Oh lay it bare  
> \- Merge, A Vessel, A Harbour by Great Lake Swimmers

Anders pointed it out one evening in late autumn.

"You’ve got a bit of an oral fixation. Always doing something with your mouth," he observed, arching an eyebrow as she lipped at the honeyed pastry that Varric had bought in Hightown. She had winked at him then, and seductively licked away the honey from the corner of her mouth. 

"Practice makes perfect, I suppose," Aveline said in the tone reserved specifically for Isabela’s antics. 

"Maker have mercy on you all," Sebastian muttered, only half serious. 

"We all have our talents," Hawke cut in smoothly. "Bela does extraordinary things with her mouth—"

"Oh! Oh, and you fling giant battleaxes into people’s heads so easily!" Merrill exclaimed, bouncing excitedly in her chair and looking a little dreamy. Hawke smiled broadly at her and kissed her cheek loudly.

"Exactly!"

Isabela let them think that it was all sexual. She licked her lips slowly, savouring the slow drag of her tongue across another spot of thick honey. She didn’t care that Sebastian probably prayed for her eternally damned soul to find forgiveness for her wicked ways in the Maker’s bosom. She didn’t care if Aveline clenched her jaw and scowled at her. She’d never put much stock into the opinions people had of her if they didn’t mesh with what she knew of herself. She knew that there were people in her life who knew her enough to know that the attractive siren was hardly skin deep.

Like Fenris. 

He knew that beyond all of the sinfully delicious things she could do with her lips, it came down to something far simpler. She loved the feel of things on her lips. Food, skin, feather quills, her labret. The braided leather she wrapped and wrapped around the hilts of her daggers, the cloth that she ripped to wrap the wound of one of her comrades (usually Hawke, the reckless lout), and occasionally her bandanna, on the rare occasion when she would let her hair down. Which she typically only ever did around him. 

She came to him in the evenings, and he would ease the bandanna from her hair and gently card his fingers through it, working down to her scalp and fluffing her hair somewhat. She’d close her eyes and allow herself to relax. For Fenris, and only Fenris, she would allow her carefully constructed guard to fall. His strong hands plucked away at the thick blanket of her hypersexuality and cradled her as she laid bare before him. (The last person who held that power now believed her dead, claimed by the sea. She found herself not minding that Fenris could do this to her; indeed, she would regret it if he ever falsely thought her gone from this world.)

He would uncork the wine that she would never admit to enjoying and take a long pull of it, then pass it to her. She would take a long, slow drink, enjoying the feel of the cool green glass against her lips. She pulled them into her mouth, licking at them and relishing in the wine that stained them. Together they would sit, hair unbound and armour forsaken and walls broken, in front of the fire in Fenris’ cracked and crumbling mansion. Always there was wine, and occasionally he would read aloud from The Book of Shartan. She would lean against his side, tossing her bare legs across his lap. If he was reading, she would press her face into the flesh of his shoulder, kissing the dark skin between bright lines of lyrium. When he was silent, she kissed at the side of his head, against his soft hair and at the warm skin of his temple. 

As she grew tired, kisses became drawn out until she simply stopped picking her mouth up from his skin. She would rest her lips against him, her eyes closed and her brows eased out of their coy arches. His thumb rubbed gently across the back of her hand, and in those moments he felt like he could grasp at the vaguest of memories, ones that he wasn’t sure happened to him or if he’d been told about them. Memories of a woman kissing his head with all the tender care only a mother could possess, memories of a small and fragile sister curling her tiny hand into his and pressing herself as close to him as she could. 

She’d asked him once if he minded them, her kisses; she wondered if they made him uncomfortable. He offered her one of his rare smiles after a moment.

"Not nearly as much as I would if your lips were barbed as your wit." He could not say that her touch made his pulse quicken, but her warmth and softness were welcome after escaping a life of sharp, cold edges and crags. And she gave a smile to him in return, one that was so very unlike the woman she was when she left his home and his arms. In true Isabela fashion, she took what was laid before her, unapologetically, and yet stopped at the threshold of his comfort, refusing to push any further. In return she stripped herself down and bared herself to him in a way she swore she would never do again. It was the best she could offer, to anyone.

Fenris took it, cradled it to him, cherished it. It was hers and his, and he would keep it close. And perhaps if he placed it high upon a shelf, just beyond the tips of her fingers, she would keep coming back to the place where he stood, guarding it. Perhaps it would grow dusty and she would forget about it, and would walk through those doors looking for him alone.

Tonight, as she slept in his arms with her lips pressed into the hollow of his elbow, he thought that perhaps she already did. 

**Author's Note:**

> I was struck by the plotbunny and had to get this little fic out. I like the headcanon that Fenris is asexual, so I hope I did it a bit of justice. This is also based on a random little blurby headcanon I have of Isabela loving things being brushed against her lips. Everyone would always assume sexual, but that's not always the case. Fenris gets it. Feedback is welcome; thanks for reading!


End file.
